Inside 'Beasts of the Southern Wild'

Hushpuppy, the 6-year-old heroine of “Beasts of the Southern Wild,” has a smile to charm fish out of the water and a scowl so fierce it can stop monsters in their tracks. The movie, a passionate and unruly explosion of Americana, directed by Benh Zeitlin, winks at skepticism, laughs at sober analysis and stares down criticism. Made on a shoestring by a resourceful New Orleans-based collective, it is animated by the same spirit of freedom it sets out to celebrate. If, as the Fourth of July approaches, you find yourself craving an antidote to anger and cynicism, a bracing reminder of the meaning of independence, and a helping of homegrown art to go with your hamburgers and watermelon, then this may be just what you need.

Played by Quvenzhané Wallis, an untrained sprite who holds the camera’s attention with a charismatic poise that might make grown-up movie stars weep in envy, Hushpuppy is an American original, a rambunctious blend of individualism and fellow feeling. In other words, she is the inheritor of a proud literary and artistic tradition, following along a crooked path traveled by Huckleberry Finn, Scout Finch, Eloise (of the Plaza), Elliott (from “E.T.”) and other brave, wild, imaginary children. These young heroes allow us, vicariously, to assert our innocence and to accept our inevitable disillusionment when the world falls short of our ideals and expectations.

They also remind us of the metaphysical arrogance of childhood. Because the self and the world are perceived, by an awakening mind, as opposites — what is inside my head and what is outside; what is me and what is not — it seems to follow that they must be equal. I, too, am a cosmos.

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Beasts of the Southern Wild, with Quvenzhané Wallis (standing, center), and Dwight Henry (standing, back to the camera), set in a part of the Louisiana bayou called the Bathtub, opens on Wednesday in New York and Los Angeles.Credit
Jess Pinkham/Fox Searchlight Pictures

This kind of juvenile narcissism, which is also a state of spiritual insight, shaped Terrence Malick’s “Tree of Life,” a movie with which “Beasts of the Southern Wild” has an evident kinship (not only because both films won prizes in Cannes). You might say that Mr. Malick’s work is a classical treatment of themes that, in Mr. Zeitlin’s version, are explored through the squawk and heat of blues, zydeco and other impure, vernacular products of America.

Hushpuppy, whose wide eyes absorb scenes of tenderness and catastrophe, and whose lyrical ruminations decorate the soundtrack, is a universe in her own right and in her own mind. She confidently predicts that a thousand years in the future, “scientists” will know about her, her father (who calls her “man” and “boss lady”) and the stretch of Louisiana bayou where they live. She knows just how big she is, and how powerful.

We, the adult witnesses to her adventures, have a slightly different perspective. Objectively, Hushpuppy is small and vulnerable, and the universe may not care as much about her as it should. She and her father (Dwight Henry) live in neighboring shacks in a place called the Bathtub, a swampy scrap of territory separated by a levee from a world of industry, consumerism and other forms of modern ugliness. The residents of the Bathtub spend their days fishing, scavenging and drinking, raising their kids to be self-sufficient and to believe in a folk religion featuring giant, ancient creatures called aurochs.

This way of life, both harsh and idyllic, is threatened by an epochal hurricane and also by the interference that comes before and after, first in the form of orders to evacuate and then in the form of bureaucratic relief efforts. Hushpuppy’s father, meanwhile, is fighting a lethal disease, hoping to stay alive long enough to prepare his daughter for an uncertain future.

Based on a play by Lucy Alibar (who collaborated on the script with Mr. Zeitlin), “Beasts of the Southern Wild” is a work of magic realism and, to some extent, an exercise in wishful thinking. The Bathtub is a museum of outsider ingenuity, its houses and boats cobbled together from weathered detritus, its residents wise, unpretentious and self-reliant. Mr. Zeitlin, shooting on 16-millimeter film rather than in a digital format, and aided by his ingenious cinematographer, Ben Richardson, finds rugged, ragged beauty in nearly every shot.

Viewers inclined to see things through the lens of ideology will find plenty to work with. From the left, you can embrace a vision of multicultural community bound by indifference to the pursuit of wealth and an ethic of solidarity and inclusion. From the right, you can admire the libertarian virtues of a band of local heroes who hold fast to their traditions and who flourish in defiance of the meddling good intentions of big government.

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But let’s all agree: This movie is a blast of sheer, improbable joy, a boisterous, thrilling action movie with a protagonist who can hold her own alongside Katniss Everdeen, Princess Merida and the other brave young heroines of 2012. There are loose threads you can pull at — sometimes the wide-eyed wonder slides toward willful naïveté, and there are moments of distracting formal sloppiness — but the garment will not come unraveled. A lot of thinking has gone into “Beasts of the Southern Wild,” about themes as well as methods, about the significance of the story as well as its shape. And it is certainly rich enough to invite and repay a healthy measure of critical thought.

But its impact, its glory, is sensory rather than cerebral. Let me try out an analogy. Discovering this movie is like stumbling into a bar and encountering a band you’ve never heard of playing a kind of music that you can’t quite identify. Nor can you figure out how the musicians learned to play the way they do, with such fire and mastery. Did they pick it up from their grandparents, study at a conservatory, watch instructional videos on the Internet or just somehow make it all up? Are you witnessing the blossoming of authenticity or the triumph of artifice?

Those are interesting questions. They are also irrelevant, because right now you are transported by an irresistible rhythm and moved by a melody that is profoundly, almost primally, familiar, even though you are sure you have never heard anything like it before.

“Beasts of the Southern Wild” is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Dangers large and small.